Page 4 of Saving Their Forever

“Depends. You want Shiner Bock, Shiner Bock, or Shiner Bock?” She tosses me a wink before she studies the bottle of Pilsner and maybe…relaxes a fraction. We’re growing on her.

CHAPTER TWO

Ryker

“Get a move on,” West shouts as he checks his stopwatch. “Rip, you’re going to be last if you don’t pick up the pace.”

“Fuck you,” Ripper mutters. He passes the SEAL and raises his middle finger. This is his first official workout with the team, and West isn’t taking it easy on him.

Graham cracks the seal on a bottle of water and drapes a towel over his shoulder. “Rip is gonna be in a world of hurt tomorrow,” he says. “I remember my first session. I couldn’t get out of bed the next day.”

“He could just stop.” As soon as I say the words, I know they’re useless. Ripper won’t stop until he passes out or West tells him he’s done. He’s spent two years trying to reclaim even a fraction of the man he used to be. The one who was captured with me and Dax. Back then, he could run a mile in under seven minutes. And hike for hours carrying a sixty-pound ruck. He’s come so far, but though he tries to hide it, he gets dizzy spells. Too many traumatic brain injuries. Along with all the other shit he went through.

I cut my hand across my throat, giving West the signal to call it. We’ve been at this for three hours. The baby shower should be over soon, and we still have a hell of a lot of shit to hash out.

“That’s good enough for today.” The SEAL strides for the kitchen and a fresh cup of coffee. “Get yourself a good cool down, folks. Company meeting in thirty.”

I head for the table where Dax sits with his tablet, using his VoiceAssist software to catch up on his email. “Want to go a couple of rounds in the ring?” I ask. “We’ve got a little time.”

He taps the earbud and tilts his head so he’s looking right at me—despite not being able to see much more than hazy shadows. “So I can kick your ass again? You sure you’re up for that?”

“Put up or shut up, brother.”

His rough chuckle should probably serve as a warning. I’ve got more than six inches and a hundred pounds on him, but Dax hits up his boxing gym back in Boston five days a week. Half the time, Ford joins him, and from what I hear, the older man almost never comes out on top.

Ten minutes later, Dax ducks between the ropes, wearing a pair of basketball shorts and a black t-shirt. I wish I didn’t care so much about the scars that cover almost every inch of me. Though, maybe if I couldn’t see them, I’d be more willing to wear something other than long sleeves and pants all the time.

“You ready?” he asks as he flexes his fingers to test the wraps around his knuckles. “Because you can still chicken out. I won’t hold it against you. Much.”

He flashes a sly smile, and I see a hint of the man I knew all those years ago.

“Not on your life.” I bounce on the balls of my feet, watching for any sort of tell. Years ago, he’d drop his left shoulder a split second before he threw a jab.

We circle each other, and Dax’s gaze, though unfocused, darts from side to side. His right hand twitches, and I spin away. His cross comes within an inch of my jaw. “Not bad,” he says. “For a guy who can see.”

I deflect another hit—this one headed for my chin—and land a punch to his solar plexus. He coughs, and I freeze for a split second. Long enough for him to sweep his leg out and catch me behind the ankles.

My ass hits the deck. Rolling onto my knees, I spring up and lunge for him. But my fingers find only the hem of his t-shirt. “You’ve got some speed. I’ll give you that. But I’m stronger.”

“Strength isn’t everything,” he grunts after I send him spinning into the ropes. He uses the momentum, tucks and rolls, and scissors his legs around my knees. “Creativity helps.”

I land on my back, and the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh. “Fuck.”

“That’s two for two.” He leans down and offers me his hand. “Though seems like the SEAL taught you a few things since the last time we sparred.”

“I’ve still never beaten him,” I grumble as I let him help me to my feet, wincing when my knees protest. Arthritis is a son of a bitch, and after spending fifteen months bound in various stress positions, beaten on the regular, with no medical care, I’ll never be whole. None of us will be.

“Are the two of you done?” West shouts from one of the couches in the sitting area. “Inara and Raelynn will be here in ten minutes. Time to do this thing.”

* * *

“She’s fine, Ry.” Inara angles her phone so I can see the picture of Wren holding a green onesie so tiny, I can’t believe it’ll actually fit our daughter—even as a newborn. “Cara had to go to the restaurant for a few hours, but Evianna’s staying with her.”

I nod, then stand and shove my hands into my pockets. “This isn’t a conversation I ever thought I’d have.”

Dax doesn’t meet my gaze, but one by one, every other member of Hidden Agenda does. They all know what’s coming. We’ve danced around the subject for weeks. Months, even. Hell, I didn’t go to Boston with the rest of the team when Zephyr was taken. And I stayed in the van in Salt Lake City while Wyatt went after Hope.

“Hidden Agenda gave me a purpose when I didn’t know how to go on. When nothing made sense. When I didn’t have anyone who cared about me.” Dax’s flinch is like a knife to my heart. I heave a sigh, my gaze on his even if he can’t see it. “When I didn’t think I had anyone who cared about me. But every time we go out on a job, there’s a chance we won’t come home. It never mattered much to me before I met Wren. And after…she understood. But it’s not just her anymore.”

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